


What's so simple in the moonlight

by MarsDiogenes



Series: OiSuga Drabble Set [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emperor!Tooru, Gladiator!Tooru, High Priest!Suga, I promise it's not that bad, I'm Sorry, M/M, Roman Empire, There's a war, Tooru and Suga are not on the same side, historically inaccurate af, yeah I know it's scary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-16
Packaged: 2018-09-08 23:31:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8867638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarsDiogenes/pseuds/MarsDiogenes
Summary: "Three days. It has been three days. And Tooru is so tired.“Yield, Oikawa.”"or In which Tooru just wants to go home, but he doesn't know if it exists anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [toorujpg](https://archiveofourown.org/users/toorujpg/gifts).



> So this is another fic for C, who asked me to "rough him up". I hope I've delivered. 
> 
> This was supposed to be fluffy and fun, dammit. But I recently read about Emperor Valerian and how he got captured by the Persians and well... yeah I have no excuse.
> 
> Scroll to the end notes if you need to see who dies. Again, sorry. <3
> 
> Title from Lua by Bright Eyes, which seems to be my muse for everything with OiSuga in it

 

Silence. Tooru pants in the stillness and waits, ignoring the tickle of dripping sweat on his nape.

And then a roar trickles down from the stands where the crowds are seated. Softly first, then all at once like a wave, starting from his left side where the image of his white-clad figure and the sword he held against Prince Wakatoshi’s throat must be particularly dashing. It isn’t his most flattering angle, Tooru admits. But he feels like he’d been rolled over by a boulder and he’s pretty sure it shows, so he’ll take what he can get at the moment. Shifting a little on his heels, he begins to catalogue his injuries, like Hajime trained him to do.

 _Yup, that’s a broken rib_.

He carefully hides a wince, the smirk on his face unwavering. He’s careful to hold his left arm steady too, despite it being his non-dominant one. His Imperial Highness broke the other one early on in their match in the hopes of taking him down quickly. His smirk widens a little to a near sneer despite the pain.

Wakatoshi had forgotten that Tooru survived the gladiator life, that before the sponsors and the parties there had been bloody mass-brawls and back-to-back matches in an effort to cull the naïve from the promising. He had forgotten that Tooru’s father, disgraced or not, had been a general of the Emperor’s army. He had forgotten about the reputation that Tooru had gained from his two years in the colosseum, that they had called him ‘King’, first with derision and then reverence as he continued to fight and _win_.

His arm unwavering, he cocks his head to the left as Wakatoshi’s eyes narrow. Tooru recognises that look. Their next clash has the potential to be dangerous for Tooru with all that Wakatoshi has learnt today.

But Tooru isn’t worried. Wakatoshi still has a long way to go.

Wakatoshi never saw what Tooru had made out of his wealthy sponsors and how he moved systematically through those endless parties. He ignored the fact that the stadium they are standing in is filled with both of their soldiers, and that Tooru taught his marginalised and beaten men not only how to fight together, but also how to be loud. He forgets how loud Tooru was, how he refused to be ignored and how even the Emperor had been forced to sit up and pay attention.

Tooru drags his eyes away from Wakatoshi’s stony face and into the piercing gaze of the Emperor, stoic as the crowd stomp and howl around them. The smirk finally falls, slowly, as Tooru tilts his head slightly to the right and lets the challenge show in his eyes.

_Look, old man. And don’t you dare look away._

He wipes away the blood on his upper lip with his right hand, ignoring the insistent throbbing of his nose and the sheer _agony_ of his right arm. The corner of his lips twitch in triumph as the Emperor’s eyes narrow imperceptibly.

He doesn’t lower his gaze, even as he lowers his sword.

 

///

 

“Yield.”

Tooru is panting. It feels like days since he’d caught his breath, three days and fourteen hours exactly. There’s probably a hole in his lungs because he can’t seem to keep enough air. Around him the sounds of battles fall begrudgingly silent, like an orchestra without a conductor.

“Yield, Caesar.”

Tooru looks at his men. They too, are tired and he doesn’t like the whistle he hears in Kindaichi’s breathing. But their arms are steady, even as they turn to look at him with pleading eyes.

 _Don’t,_ they say. _We can still win this._ _Please._

He thinks about it for one long moment, what it would take to keep going. He looks at the eyes of his men, the determination that shines so brightly, and he’s so, _so_ proud. Because he remembers what they looked like before, angry and desperate. He wonders what his own eyes look like right now, but he sees the fear mingling with the determination in Matsukawa’s figure and he knows.

Three days. It has been three days. And Tooru is so tired.

“ _Yield,_ Oikawa.”

He follows the line of the sword at his throat to the bloodied but determined face of Asahi Azumane.

_Three days, fourteen hours and three minutes._

A grazed cheek. There’s a clean slice up his left arm. His stomach feels tender where he’d been kneed before. Superficial scratches on his calves.

Tooru drops his sword and laughs, empty. “Okay.”

Asahi nods gravely, but relief is clear in the subtle sag of his shoulders. Tooru’s men drop their weapons reluctantly and Tooru looks away.

Yahaba screams and sobs angrily as he watches Tooru being pulled by bound hands behind Persian horses, and even now, a good ten minutes beyond the horizon, Tooru can still hear Kyoutani’s furious snarling (which he really shouldn’t be doing; Tooru saw the hit he took to the chest just a few hours ago). He apologises silently but knows it’s better this way. They wouldn’t have won. He couldn’t have pulled it off, not without Hajime. And although the other Generals would probably have disagreed, Tooru can’t bring himself to care about having lost this particular corner of the world to the Persians.

Three days, sixteen hours, and thirty minutes in a world without Hajime, and Tooru wonders when he’ll be able to stop counting.

 

///

 

“…And though I feel that Senator Tendou’s suggestion has considerable merit, we cannot ignore the danger it poses to our beloved Emperor.”

Tooru raises an eyebrow, yet remains silent when he sees Tendou grin. “Why, Senator,” Tendou gasps, a hand pressed to his chest melodramatically. “Were you too busy thoroughly kissing our Emperor’s ass to recall his considerable combat prowess?” His grin widens, unnerving with how wide it stretches his cheeks. “Although a delectable rear it is, we mustn’t let it distract us from the matter at hand - that is - our great Empire’s security and prosperity.” Tendou finishes it off with a wink in Tooru’s direction.

Tooru hears a stifled cough from where Hajime is standing guard and fights down a snort.

Face red, the Senator splutters, “T-The fact remains that your idea is not viable, particularly in the long term. Should the Emperor fall in battle, what would befall our Empire?”

Tooru lets the thought sit for a few long moments, ignoring the whispers that arise and instead turning his head to glance first at Hajime - who raises an eyebrow at him before straightening his shoulders – then at Wakatoshi.

Wakatoshi reads the question in his eyes and answers with a nod, closing his eyes solemnly.

_Well, I guess that’s that settled._

Tooru stands and hears Hajime shift behind him. “Honourable Senators, while I am flattered at your consideration, I think it is important for us all to remember that while the power you have bestowed upon my hands is great, these hands that hold the hopes and dreams of the Empire are but human hands. And like the seasons, the life of a human passes quickly. Even the Emperor is bound by nature’s laws.” He pauses, and looks into the eyes of each person solemnly. “However, I am bound also by my duty to the Empire. Put a sword in my hands and I shall defend you to my dying breath. And though my life may be fleeting, if I can ensure the return of even one father or son, then the will of Romulus will endure.”

Grim faces stared back at him, resolve clear in their eyes.

Tooru smirks. “I am a little hurt, though. Don’t you all think I can take care of myself?” He takes a step forward, shoulders drawing back as he lifts his chin challengingly. “Let’s be realistic here. There is nothing that the Persians can throw at us, however many of those so-called Immortals they have, that could bring us to our knees. We are mighty. Our people are mighty.”

And this is what Wakatoshi needs to learn; swords can only destroy. _This_ is what builds an empire.

“As long as we stand together, as long as we live and breathe, our Empire will never fall. For one man alone can fall, but a Roman never stands alone.” Tooru smiles brightly and holds his arms open. “Long live the Empire.”

“Long live the Empire!” Hajime takes up the call, and the rest follow.

“Long live the Empire!”

“Long live the Emperor!”

“Long live the Empire! Long live the Emperor!”

Tooru indulges and basks in the noise a little before sweeping out of the room, Hajime falling into step behind him. He rides the high all the way to his quarters, smile softer yet more real when he turns to face Hajime after the doors close behind them.

“You always have the best timing, Iwa-chan! That was perf- “, the rest is muffled against Hajime’s lips.

Warm and firm, Hajime kisses like he knows he should be elsewhere, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He coaxes Tooru in with gentle suction until Tooru knows nothing else but the feel of his breath bouncing off Hajime’s cheeks, and the long, luxurious sweeps of his tongue.

They part for a moment, panting into the space between them. “Wow, Iwa-chan! Did you like that little scene at the meeting? I’ll have to make sure to hold them more often.”

Hajime growls. “Shut up.”

Tooru does, and lets Hajime go back to work on his mouth. His back thuds against the door, the knob jabbing uncomfortably into his hip, and he realises that somehow he’d been turned around and pinned. Then Hajime does that thing with his tongue and Tooru can’t help it; he mewls a little.

_Iwa-chan is too dangerous. He should never be unleashed into the world._

And really, Tooru is fine with that. Hajime should only be _his_ anyway. And as long as he wants Tooru and Tooru only, he’ll be happy to let Hajime take what he wants from him.

They part, and _wow_ ; Tooru’s knees aren’t responding anymore and he’s forced to drape himself along Hajime’s front to keep upright. He feels like he should probably say something but he’s too busy trying to catch his breath. Hajime rests their foreheads together, and damn him, he’s only slightly breathless.

“Are you sure about this,” asks Hajime, uncharacteristically quiet. “There’s still time to change your mind.”

Tooru hums lightly, still recovering. “I’m sure.”

Hajime sighs. “Okay.” He wraps his arms around Tooru’s waist and holds him there, and though Hajime isn’t normally this affectionate, Tooru understands and reciprocates by winding his arms around his shoulders.

“I’ll be alright, Iwa-chan, I promise.” He feels Hajime puff out a breath against his neck. “I will. I’ll make it back home.”

“Okay,” says Hajime, firmer now and with resolve as if he’d just confirmed something in his head. He holds Tooru tighter for a moment, then steps back with a kiss to his forehead.

Tooru whines, “I thought we were going to cuddle a bit more.”

“Idiot,” says Hajime with a flick to his forehead. “I need to go over your guard detail for the rest of the month. Senator Katsuo was quiet today. I don't like the way he was looking at you.”

“It can wait. Come oooon, Iwa-chan.”

“No, it really can’t. He’s a wily little shit, and not above offing his competitors if it gets him what he wants. Besides, I know you’re going to go over those tax amendment numbers again before tomorrow.”

“No, I’m not,” he says with a pout. Well he was, but now he’s going to look over the agricultural reports from the reform. It wouldn’t do for him to get predictable.

“Sure." Hajime smirks, like he knows, and Tooru can't even work himself up to be annoyed. "I’m going,” he salutes. “The blacksmith will come later so ask about your sword. Don’t talk to strangers, remember to eat.”

“Iwa-chan, I’m not a child!”

“Could’ve fooled me.” And with a smile and an absent wave, he was gone.

 

///

 

The first time Koushi sees him, he sees only the dust and the brown, cracked smears of old blood. Oikawa’s hands are bound in front of him, his face red with sun-burn. He looks like any other prisoner of war – albeit a little better treated – and Koushi almost turns away.

Then Daichi steps down to regard him and Oikawa lifts his chin minutely, drawing his shoulders down and back. Koushi finds himself taking a step back at the smile on his face and the challenge in his eyes. _This is the man_ , he thinks, _that almost brought us to our knees_.

He greets Daichi with respect, but does not bow. Daichi in return continues to regard him from the stairs of the palace, placing himself above the heads of the people below. It took a while to get Daichi playing these political power games with ease. It had only been a short time since he’d inherited a war that his father started. But now he’s able to stand in the same space as Emperor Oikawa and retain his authority as a monarch of equal standing. Koushi is so proud.

They put Oikawa in the South Wing, confined in a set of quarters reserved for foreign dignitaries. It’s beneath what his station demands, but far above what is expected of his circumstances. And as far as Koushi is concerned, it’s far more than he deserves.

“He’s a valuable hostage,” says Daichi when Koushi brings it up. “If nothing else, he’s an honourable man, a good one.”

“You’ve barely spoken two words to him!”

“Actually,” Daichi begins. Koushi doesn’t like the smirk on his face. It’s the one he wears when he has done something he knows Koushi wouldn’t approve of, but doesn’t regret it. “We’ve had a few long conversations. He’s smart, and terrifyingly charismatic. Definitely a dangerous enemy. So we’ll treat him with Persian hospitality and watch as his Empire falls without him there to lead them.”

So they waited, and pushed their offensive further to take advantage of the situation. Daichi refuses to make an example of Oikawa to demoralise the Roman Legions, instead treating him as a highly-restricted guest.

Daichi likes to accompany Oikawa in walking the gardens when he has time. They seem to get along strangely well, and as a result, Oikawa is given more freedom to wander the palace. He’s always accompanied by at least three guards on a constantly changing roster; Daichi likes him, but he isn’t naïve.

Koushi doesn’t know why exactly he starts to join them on their walks, or when he started seeking him out without Daichi there as a buffer. But there’s just something about Oikawa – maybe in the way he holds himself or the way he walks – that draws people in and Koushi is afraid to admit that he is a little captivated by the man. His gestures and mannerisms seem to carry drama, like a painting or a sculpture. And everything he touches, from the clothes he wears to the garden blooms he weaves into laurels every morning, seem to attain some sort of significance beyond their purpose or appearance.

He doesn’t remember thinking about it, the first time. He remembers Oikawa extending his arm out, inviting him to sit on the cool, marble bench under the boughs of the cherry tree. He remembers the pink petal caught in Oikawa’s hair. He remembers reaching out his hand and brushing it off, the same errant hand finishing the motion by tipping Oikawa’s upturned face even higher. He remembers those lips, soft and dry, and the way Oikawa seemed to hold his breath until he pulled away. And those eyes, the surprised and curious look in them, and how they burned a hole into Koushi’s white robes as he turned and strode away, red-faced.

The second time, he doesn’t remember much other than the warmth that slowly seeps in from his reddened cheeks and into his bones.

The third time was when he had decided to explore this new… thing between them further. Oikawa had been given permission to train with a blunted sword in the Roman style. Young Tobio, an eager Immortal initiate, had boldly come to him for instruction, only to be rebuffed with more derision and pettiness than Koushi had formerly thought possible from Oikawa. He had then turned to Koushi with his head tilted to the right and more of that delightful – and very promising, he decides – curiosity in his eyes.

And Koushi? Well, High Priest and close to the gods he may be, but he was born human and that part inside him wants very badly to see how many times he can make those eyes look at him like that.

The rest of the times after that blur together into soft touches and tentative words, both feeling carefully into the undefined space between them. Koushi feels like he’s dancing most of the time, always mindful of Oikawa in his arms, stepping carefully and wary of their surroundings.

Daichi knows, of course. And looks at him with a smirk on his lips, but worry in his eyes. “Do you know what you’re doing?” he asks at the evening meal one day.

Koushi shrugs. “Not really, but does anyone? I leave the pondering-the-future business to the soothsayers.”

Daichi snorts, but doesn’t say anything further.

But of course, Koushi is aware of how dangerous it is. Oikawa is beautiful, soft and yielding, but with a core of steel inside that makes things fun. It might be hard to remember the war and how utterly _Roman_ he is if Koushi didn’t watch him training some days. He had heard rumours, but thought they were just soldier’s exaggerations to glorify their Emperor and thus never really believed them. But there is no denying it when he sees Oikawa move with a sword in his hands, so dangerous and all the more beautiful for it.

But he forgets sometimes that his enemies are not Oikawa’s, that the generals they celebrate killing were probably Oikawa’s trusted subordinates, if not friends. He forgets and says something horribly stupid like; “The dates aren’t the best this year, but when we get the Roman forces out of the farms, which shouldn’t take too long now, they should be much better. I miss the taste of fresh dates.”

Oikawa had gone still, stony faced and unsmiling. “Really,” he says in a careful tone. “How long will it take; do you think?”

Suga, careful then when he’d recognised his misstep, had replied, “a few months. We’ve heard rumours about dissent high up in the Roman government, conflict about whether the war was worth pursuing or not. We should be able to take advantage and sow some propaganda to drop morale. Defeating them then would be simple.”

There was silence then, as the words hang in between them, uneasy. And then it shattered and Oikawa had laughed, low and dark. “You think that because you have me here, playing the obedient lapdog, that you’ll have my empire too.” He sneered. “Emperor Wakatoshi may not be eloquent or verbose, but he is not alone. And when it comes to battles, he makes no compromises.”

He stepped forward, posture coiled and ready while the guards at the door bristled. Koushi had checked to see if he had a sword in his hand, but refused to back down. “When he comes to battle, he will meet our Immortals, and then we’ll see who really needs compromises.”

“When he comes,” Oikawa growled. “He will not be alone, and we’ll see how brightly your cities burn.”

And for a moment then, Koushi had hated him; he hated how his lips curled into a smirk, how his head was tilted slightly to the right, challenging, not curious. He hated how Oikawa made his chest ache and his fists clench, and how he thought he was still beautiful after all that. Because even this version of Oikawa, the Emperor and the enemy, still enchanted him. And he  _hated_ it, hated how it made him want to push and keep on pushing until the steel in those eyes melted away and broke under him.

Koushi pressed their lips together with bruising force, harsh and unyielding, and so unlike the other countless times. He kissed and sucked and bit, until he tasted blood and pulled away.

Then he saw his eyes, lit up with anger and yet careful, as if he was mentally reassessing Koushi’s standing as a threat. Koushi had stepped back then and saw the wariness, the resignation.

Then Koushi left, running from the room. It was a long time before he could even think of coming back.

He has heard stories since then - from the warfront - of how Emperor Wakatoshi’s forces had swept in when the battle was all but decided and turned the tides, led by a general by the name of Tendou Satori. Daichi had confided in him that he was reconsidering perpetuating the war. Koushi empathises; Daichi had never thought that expansion was sustainable for Persia. The thing is, Koushi is finding it hard to care about the war efforts beyond the usual casualty reports when he’s busy remembering how badly he screwed up.

It’s not even just him that’s screwed. It’s potentially Daichi and the rest of his country, because when the war is over they’re probably going to be handing Oikawa back to Rome, and who knows what will happen then? Oikawa had already proven himself to be dangerous even when unprovoked. What about when he’s angry?

And Koushi is deserving of his anger; he’s not going to argue that. He’d behaved horribly, lost his head. So if he ever wants to have Oikawa’s forgiveness, he’s going to be the one to make the first move.

“Perhaps a gift,” Kiyoko recommends.

Koushi is skeptical, but remember how little Oikawa has in his quarters, how he sits at the west window and gazes when the sun sets, and concedes. He gives instructions to the servants while Oikawa is training and waits in the room with a new set of armour Daichi had authorised to be made, as well as a bouquet of the best flowers available from the gardens.

When Oikawa arrives there is no anger on his face, only wariness and that endearing curiosity in his eyes. Koushi forges forward at the sight, a little relieved yet still careful.

“I’ve brought the evening meal,” he says, fidgeting a little at Oikawa’s wary gaze. “Or had it brought, rather. Nevertheless, would you join me?”

“Roman style?” Oikawa seems to hesitate for a moment before taking a seat and accepting the flowers. “How modern.”

Koushi ignores the edge in the words and presents the bottle of wine. “I thought you’d appreciate it. Here,” he says, passing a glass. “Daichi managed to find this in his stores.” Roman wines aren’t easy to come by, and this one is the product of a bountiful year. Daichi had been reluctant to part with it until he heard it was for Oikawa.

There is an odd look in Oikawa’s eyes when he sees the bottle and the distinctive markings. He traces his fingers over the surface. “This is...-”

“I’m told it was from a particularly distinguished estate. Was he wrong?” Koushi mentally scrambles to find a distraction, but Oikawa seems almost entranced by the way the light bounces off the burgundy liquid.

“No, he was right. This is…” he hesitates. “This is from my father’s old estate, from the year of my birth, actually.”

Oikawa takes a sip, and Koushi watches a myriad of expressions flit over his face as he lets the taste curl around his tongue. He watches Oikawa close his eyes, breathing deeply, controlled, before swallowing.

Then he opens his eyes, and Koushi has to stop himself from reaching out to embrace him. He’d seen that look once, in a son who had lost a father.

Oikawa takes in the room, bathed in the light of the setting sun and gazes west with the look of a child missing his mother, body curling inwards. Koushi sits frozen in his chair.

And then Oikawa turns to face him. “Let me go home,” he croaks, tears tracing a slow path down his cheeks. “Nine months, twelve days and twenty hours. Please. Just let me go home.”

“I don’t- “

“Please.” Koushi hates how quiet, how desperate and small Oikawa is now, the usual grace and confidence having fled in the face of grief and loss. “I can’t stay here any longer and not hate you. I need to go home. Please, just let me go home.”

And what else can Koushi do when Oikawa looks up at him those pleading eyes, like he’d been stabbed and left for dead. “Okay,” he whispers. Koushi swallows, then tries again, louder this time. “Okay.”

 

///

 

They are ten years old, and Tooru is running towards the hillside.

He’d never been the one to be late. It was always Hajime, running over with a disgruntled look on his face and bleeding from somewhere. He’d been the one to wait, fiddling with handfuls of grass and wildflowers.

He sees Hajime now, sitting with his face turned up to the sun, as he turns the corner too fast and slips on the damp grass, tumbling to a stop at his feet. Hajime snorts and Tooru huffs before deigning to sit next to him.

The air turns thick with uncertainty as Tooru settles and they turn their eyes towards the horizon. Hajime, with a fierce scowl on his child-soft face, winds flower stems around his fingers in agitation. They sit there, unaccustomed to the uneasy silence, watching the sun drop lower and lower in the sky.

“I’ll be back,” Tooru whispers. “I promise.”

Hajime turns to face him, face carefully blank, and says nothing.

Tooru frowns. “I will! I’ll come back, just for you, and we’ll play together again, every day.” He grips a shoulder when Hajime goes to turn away. “I’ll come back, Iwa-chan. So wait for me.”

Hajime stares at him, then snorts, in that way he does when Tooru is being especially ridiculous. “That’s stupid. _You’re_ stupid.” Ignoring Tooru’s indignant gasp, he shrugs off the hand at his shoulder. “What happens if I’m not here then, huh? If all that’s making you come back is me, what are you gonna do when I’m gone?”

Tooru frowns, not understanding. Hajime rolls his eyes.

“Look. You’re stupid- “

“Oi!”

“-and you get lost easy, _and_ you always need someone to bail you out. But when I need to find you, for some reason you’re always here.” Hajime stands, and Tooru scrambles to follow him up. “This place and you; when we first met it seemed like both of you were waiting for me. You’ve loved this place long before you ever met me.”

“Probably because I didn’t know what I was missing.”

Hajime shakes his head. “No, Tooru. You love this place because it’s your home. And you’ll come back because you want to go home, not because of me.”

Tooru doesn’t know why, but his eyes are stinging. “You don’t get it, Iwa-chan! When I think of home, you’re in every part. There’s no home for me without you in it.”

“That’s because you’re an idiot, idiot.” Hajime sighs. “Think about it. How many things did you miss when you sat here waiting for me? How many meals? How many lessons? How many people?”

Tooru clenches his fists, shoulders trembling because he doesn’t _understand_. What is Hajime talking about? Doesn’t he want to be friends anymore?

Hajime seems to read it in his face and sighs again, bending down to pick up the flowers he had been fiddling with. “Look, dumbass. You always said you wanted to go to Rome and become famous. Just because your dad screwed up doesn’t mean that you can’t anymore.” He curls the stems tighter, lips pursed in concentration. “Here,” he says, and places a clumsily made laurel on top of Tooru’s tousled head.

It sits, lopsided but well made, mingling with Tooru’s brown hair as he fights down a sneeze from the pollen. Hajime’s fingers are dusted yellow and orange, leaving streaks when he wipes them absently down the front of his tunic. Tooru’s own fingers go up to feel the delicate petals settling against his forehead.

“When you’re ready to come back, go to Rome and I’ll find you. But it’s a loud place, so you’ve gotta be louder. You’ll enjoy that though, being the centre of attention.”

Tooru pouts, but it’s short-lived as he ponders the idea. “Rome,” he hums. “Okay, Iwa-chan. I’ll find you in Rome.”

“Dumbass,” Hajime growls, with a flick to Tooru’s forehead. “I’ll be finding _you._ You just do what you need to do. I’ll be right behind you.”

 

///

 

It is quiet now.

The entire country had been swept up in a week-long celebration of the end of the war, but night had fallen long ago and most people have left to seek their beds.

“Have you reconsidered?” asks Wakatoshi.

“What,” Tooru smiles. “Can’t handle the title after all?”

“No,” Wakatoshi shakes his head, unwilling to rise to the bait, or just not seeing it. “But you’re better at leading people than I am.”

Tooru sighs. “We just have different styles. You did well enough when I was away.”

They sit together, listening to the drunken revellers finally making their way home. Tooru closes his eyes, breathing in the familiar smell of his city, and feels something loosen in his chest. The way his robes drape across his body, the sight of a golden laurel resting against Wakatoshi’s temples, and the weight of his sword at his side.

He realises he’d lost count a while ago. How many days ago, exactly? He scrambles to remember so he could start up again, but stops.

_How many things did you miss when you sat here waiting for me?_

He thinks he understands now, but doesn’t know if he wants to. He doesn’t want to let him go.

_But haven’t you, just a little? You’ve lost count._

And Tooru feels sick, because he’d finally done the unforgivable and betrayed Hajime. He had stopped looking for him in every flower, in every sunset. He had stopped and smelled them instead, held hands with someone else in the light of the dying sun, kissed him and not Hajime.

But Hajime is gone from everywhere except in Tooru’s heart. He can’t kiss him anymore, or hold him, but he can hold the memory of him close, taste him on his lips when he closes his eyes.

And it’s not enough. It never will be because those too will fade with time. And that _hurts_.

But he remembers not hurting. He remembers sitting under the cherry tree and soft lips pressed on his. He remembers wanting more, to laugh more and smile more and _live_ more. And he remembers the person who made him feel that way.

He has always had Hajime, but maybe he’ll be okay without him too.

“The delegation from Persia will arrive tomorrow,” says Wakatoshi. “Will you be in attendance?”

Tooru closes his eyes, sees Hajime, cherry petals, and a wide smile under silver hair. He opens them.

 “Yes.”

**Author's Note:**

> Spoiler: Iwa dies. :( I'm sorry.
> 
> I don't know how fic writers update regularly. Making the words do the thing is so hard wtf. Only my love for bby girl brought me through to the end.
> 
> Also, you guys!!! I am so sorry about saying I'd update soon and taking a year then postin this angst. I blame fiction writing courses.
> 
> PLEASE tell me about my mistakes, historical or whatever. I love hearing from you all
> 
> EDIT: fixed up some grammar, and that arm he broke that can still move somehow, yikes. It hurts a lot but our boy Tooru is badass.


End file.
